


Comparing Notes

by Suzie_Shooter



Series: Back Channels [1]
Category: Alex Rider (TV 2020), Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: Crack, Gen, Gen Work, Humour, Unlikely Friendships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:08:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25208995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzie_Shooter/pseuds/Suzie_Shooter
Summary: Not entirely serious, but someone suggested Smithers and Yassen as unlikely drinking buddies, and this happened...
Series: Back Channels [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1868014
Comments: 16
Kudos: 108





	Comparing Notes

He could be fired for this, Smithers reflected, as he settled onto a bench in a discreet corner of a pub just off Hyde Park. No, not fired, what was the other thing? Arrested. He hid a smile in his pint. He sometimes thought half the satisfaction of this was how much certain people would be pissed off if they knew. The man he was waiting for was wanted by security services on every continent – Smithers never had found out exactly what had gone down in Antarctica – and was a ruthless, cold-blooded killer.

He was also surprisingly good company.

“Here he is. International man of mystery,” Smithers said, as Yassen slid into the booth next to him.

Yassen gave him a look, and Smithers grinned. He was never sure how many of his references Yassen got, he suspected more than he let on, but it amused him either way.

“You are a strange man,” Yassen muttered, taking a sip of his own drink. 

“Takes one to know one,” Smithers retorted. “How’s the world of international espionage?”

“You tell me.”

Smithers leaned back in his seat and sighed. “Same old shit really.”

They had discovered early on that the managerial machinations and political in-fighting of MI6 and SCORPIA bore such a close resemblance as to be virtually indistinguishable, if you ignored the fact that in the event of a fuck up one side was more likely to take firing you literally. These occasional meetings gave them a chance to vent about their superiors to someone they could be absolutely sure wouldn’t be telling tales behind their back.

It was a truce, of sorts. Neither man ever asked direct questions about the other’s organisation, or if they did, the other simply ignored it and nothing more was said. But they had got into the habit of trading snippets of other information, about other people and events. It might, for instance, be convenient for Yassen if British Intelligence found out about a terrorist cell that was making a nuisance of itself to SCORPIA. Or Smithers might let slip a detail about the current whereabouts of someone that MI6 knew perfectly well was guilty of crimes they couldn’t convict them for, and if that person also happened to have crossed SCORPIA in the past and subsequently disappeared, well, that wasn’t something MI6 could be held accountable for, was it?

Their unlikely companionship – Smithers hesitated to call it friendship – had almost ended before it had begun, when Smithers had been caught in a raid on a government facility. There had been an exchange of gunfire, casualties on both sides, Smithers was out of ammunition and listening to footsteps approaching the lab where he was hiding. When the door opened to reveal Yassen Gregorovich, Smithers had been convinced his time had come. 

“Please. I’m unarmed. Don’t shoot.”

Yassen had just looked at him. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t.” 

“I’m too pretty to die?” 

Yassen had looked blanker than ever, and Smithers had winced. “And you totally didn’t get that reference and now I’m going to die sounding like a dick.” 

“Who are you?” Yassen had asked, sounding exasperated.

“Smithers.”

He’d expected a bullet, or at least to be taken prisoner, he was out of tricks and knew a man of his clearance level would be of value to SCORPIA. But Yassen had slowly lowered the gun.

“Huh.”

Smithers looked confused. “You’re not going to shoot me?”

“I suppose not. Think of it as your lucky day.”

Smithers blinked. “Why not? I mean, not that I want you to,” he’d added hastily, in case Yassen changed his mind.

“I’ve heard your name. I suppose I should let you go or I’ll never hear the end of it.” 

“Who from?” 

“Rider.”

“Ian?” Smithers frowned, more confused than ever. 

“Alex. I think his actual words were you were the only one he’d piss on if you were on fire, so I wouldn’t get too flattered.”

“You see Alex?” 

Yassen hadn’t replied, just turned to leave and Smithers had decided not to push his luck. 

The coincidence, and Smithers thought it had been a genuine one, came half an hour later, when he’d phoned in his report and walked straight into the nearest pub for a much needed drink. Only to see Yassen at the other end of the bar, staring at him with a fixed look on his face and glass halfway to his lips.

Smithers ran through various doomsday scenarios in his head involving every person in the pub dying in a bloodbath, then did the only thing he could think of. He walked over.

“So.” Smithers gave him an embarrassed smile. “This is awkward. Come here often?”

The thing that had taken him by surprise more than anything else, was that Yassen had actually laughed. 

“It’s been a rough day,” he conceded.

“Tell me about it.” Smithers had sighed. And somehow, he had. They both had. It had been a mutual bitching session of epic proportions that had ended at midnight, both of them far drunker than they should have risked getting, parting in the road with the vague suggestion hanging in the air that they should do this again some time. 

It wasn’t often. Yassen wasn’t in the country much for one thing, and both of them were all too aware of the consequences of being found out. But every so often it became possible and they’d fetch up once more in one of London’s myriad pubs. Never the same one twice in a row, but they didn’t avoid returning to one completely. A false pattern was sometimes safer than none, after all. 

“Do you know what the latest suggestion is?” Smithers complained now. 

“Tell me. I need to know somebody’s had a worse week than me.”

“Mmmn. They’ve decided there’s too much friction in the department. They’re making us go on a team-building course.”

Yassen choked on his drink. “You mean like – paintballing or something?” he asked, fascinated. 

“Something like that. I don’t know the details yet.”

“Be a shame if someone was to accidentally take live ammunition along,” Yassen said reflectively. 

Smithers grinned. It was one of the things he liked about Yassen, his tendency to say terrible things with a completely straight face. Usually what Smithers had already been thinking. He wondered if that made him a bad person.

“Little mix-up in stores, could take out the whole HR team,” Smithers agreed. “I could totally come up with live ammo that looked like a paint cartridge.”

It was Yassen’s turn to smile. It was what _he_ liked about Smithers, that in their increasingly outlandish plans for theoretical revenge on their respective bosses, while he might come up with the suggestions it was usually Smithers who thought of a way of actually executing it. Executing being the operative word. He strongly suspected Smithers technically had a body-count approaching his own if you counted the number of his inventions in use by current operatives.

“So some on. What’s so bad in the world of an overpriced gun for hire this week?” Smithers prompted.

“Another month, another would-be criminal mastermind,” said Yassen gloomily. “What is it about these people? All megalomaniacs without an ounce of sense between them. Anybody who seriously wanted that level of money and influence could easily do it semi-legally. Oil, or guns, or stock-market manipulation. Or politics.” He drank, and Smithers nodded sympathetically, trying not to laugh.

“Don’t tell me it was another one who wanted crocodiles?”

Yassen gave him a dark look. “Piranhas.”

“Oooh.” Smithers made a face, but Yassen shook his head. 

“Seriously, they’re just fish. They’re not interested.” He drained his glass. “And then of course somehow it’s my fault, and why aren’t they attacking him Yassen, and why haven’t they stripped him to death yet Yassen?”

Smithers sniggered. 

“It’s not funny.”

“It is kind’ve funny. So did they eat him in the end?”

“No, he drowned.” 

Smithers kept a straight face with some difficulty. “Job done then?”

“Not spectacular enough apparently. The client wanted a refund.” Yassen perked up. “At least that annoyed them enough to let me kill him.”

“You’re going to run out of clients if you keep killing them off,” Smithers pointed out.

“Not a chance. There’s always some other idiot looking to plug the gap.” 

“Doesn’t it put them off? Prospective customers I mean?”

“Did I mention they’re mostly stupid? No, if anything it seems to help our reputation. People never think it’ll happen to them, do they?”

“Fair point.” Smithers drained his own glass and went to the bar. When he came back Yassen went up in turn, neither of them being quite at the level of trusting the other with their drinks. 

When he came back Smithers was leafing through a newspaper somebody had left on the table.

“What do you make of this?” he asked, handing it across. The headline was _Decapitated Man Found Upside Down In Industrial Chimney_.

“Huh. I guess he lost his head?”

Smithers groaned. “Have you been hanging round Alex again? No, I only ask because he was apparently one of ours.” 

Yassen handed the paper back with a shrug. “Don’t ask me,” he said, taking a mouthful of his drink. “It is strange though.” He paused. “He definitely still had his head when I pushed him in.”

-


End file.
